status: trailer-park legend

i went to see
the graves
where my grandfather
buried his dead
without hymns.


the water tower hides the sky:
red on black,
where i hide him now.

i bury his stones
to mind the soil.

Amber

Today's been a writing day for me; I've probably spent 9 hours writing various things. I used to post my poems on my Myspace blog but I recently had to get rid of Myspace. It wasn't good for me. I'm real tired, I've barely slept in a few days and don't think sleep's coming soon, so I thought I'd post something here, and on Flickr - http://flickr.com/photos/39199733@N00/. I'll be uploading there and Smugmug - clotheslinephotographs.smugmug.com - and here a bit more soon. So no, this poem is not what I normally do here, it's not exactly about photography, but the photographs I'm posting are where some of the images from the poem came from. Unfortunately I had to convert these photos to another format so they don't look nearly as good here; they should be more vibrant and sharp... and these are doing that haloing thing. Sorry, I'll try to work that kink out later. For now, view better ones on Flickr. Safe travels to you.













In five weeks
This season’s changed
From stains to russet.
The chairs creaking
Against floorboards,
The water reaching up
To the Cyprus knobs.

In five weeks
I’ve gone from
Panting to prayer,
Gathering rain
In shopping carts.
I thought these weeks
Would be different,
Holding stamps
While I wait for the bus.

These five weeks
You pressed yourself
Against lampposts
That hold the night sky.

Each season shares
New colors,
Streaks the window panes
Like a diving bell.

These five weeks
I’ve come and gone,
My front porch is lonelier,
Carries the cold
Too well.

Each week buried
The mist, held light.













In five weeks
I’ve tasted fire
Coiled between
My thumb and finger.
The ghosts of holidays
Bore into fruitcake
And leave us begging.

My five weeks
Channeled grave robbers,
Tearing my grandfather’s
Pendant in the Arkansas sun.

Each week
Seems like falsehood and hope,
Torn from
Distant sheets you now share.

My blessings mourn
The stale wind,
The smell of exhaust
Coming through
Like hale stones.

These five weeks
I caught amber
In the mist.